Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws)

by Paula Altenburg

  She did not know what she asked of him. If he took Airie with him, she would be passed on to the demons. It would be better for everyone involved if he killed her now. He would tell Mamna he’d had no choice in the matter, which was true.

  “I’m sorry, I—” Hunter started to say that he would not make promises to a dying woman that he could not keep, but then Airie walked into the room and he could say no more.

  She had changed her clothes and tied her hair into a long, heavy braid that touched her waist. She cradled a rainbow-colored stone on a golden chain in the palm of one hand. The strange overhead lighting of the temple caught the amulet’s colors and shot them to the darkest corners of the room. She carried the amulet to the priestess and tried to press it into her thin fingers.

  The priestess refused it. “It’s yours now,” she said to Airie. “Wear it always, and think of your mother often. Remember me in your prayers.”

  Hunter stood on the periphery of the room, uncertain what to do and feeling more of an unwanted intruder with each passing breath. Airie kissed her mother’s cheek as the priestess’s eyes slid shut. A short time later a dry rattle deep in the old woman’s chest told him the end was near. Airie clung to her hand, holding it tight against her breast, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Hunter had seen death more times than he cared to remember. He’d experienced it first with his own sister. He had felt the gut-wrenching pain of its touch.

  Never before, however, had he witnessed a raw grief such as this. Airie’s was something he knew he would never forget, not so much for its intensity as its quiet dignity. It was as if she drew every emotion she felt deep within her body and held it there so it could not escape.

  But it was the gentleness in the touch of a spawn for its mother that unsettled Hunter the most. He could not kill this woman and call it a mercy. Not while there was the slightest chance the priestess had been right about her.

  She’s kind and loving, and knows right from wrong…

  He felt the jaws of a giant, invisible trap slamming shut around his neck.

  He let her sit in silence for a long time, saying whatever good-byes she felt needed to be said, then placed a firm hand on her shoulder. Time was passing, and he could not forget about the earth tremors they had already experienced. This mountain was the last place he wanted to be if they began again.

  Airie started at his touch, as if she had forgotten all about his presence.

  “We have to go,” he said. “Gather your things.”

  She looked up at him with dark, tragic eyes, and again he was struck by the illusion of beauty and innocence she presented. Instinct had him wanting to reach for her, to take her in his arms and offer comfort. Then his ribs twitched with pain and he remembered she was not all that innocent, no matter what her mother believed about her or how she presented herself. He called to mind an image of his sister and her torn remains, and of the monstrosity she had died giving birth to, and any pity he might have felt for Airie fled.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. A hint of hysteria tempered her words. “I can’t leave my mother.”

  Spawn or not, this was awkward for him, and as always when Hunter did not know what to do, he opted for plain, harsh truth. “Your mother is gone. She asked me to take you with me.”

  “I heard her.” A shiver began in her as if she were cold, or in deep, physical pain, but then she pulled herself tight to contain it. “Don’t worry. You won’t need protection from me because I’m not going anywhere with you. If there’s no place in the world for my kind, then I choose to stay here.”

  So she had caught his words. Hunter could not remember the last time he had felt himself blush—if ever—and the sense of being somehow in the wrong made him angry with her all over again. “You can’t stay here. We’ll have to make a place for you elsewhere.”

  When she looked at him, it was as if she saw inside him and had no liking for what she found. Coldly polite, her contempt lashed him. “Tell me, Demon Slayer. What are you doing here on the mountain? Are you on some sort of pilgrimage?”

  He was at a loss. She was the criminal, not he. He had not thought about having to explain himself to her when he’d set out from Freetown. While he had not intended to tie her up and carry her across his saddle the way he often did when collecting bounty—past bounties had been male—some stupid part of him had assumed that since she was female, she would accompany him without resistance.

  Before he could think of a believable response to her question, another tremor shook the room. He fell against her, knocking her from her chair. He managed to stay on his own feet, although with difficulty.

  A second tremor, far more intense, rumbled deep beneath the temple floor, then rammed to the surface. Fine cracks shot up the walls, and the temple’s odd lighting flickered and dimmed. A loud crack from beyond the open entrance sounded as if the whole mountain were splitting in two, and Sally, waiting outside, let out a frightened bellow. Hunter knew he had only a few seconds before the animal bolted, with or without him.

  He grabbed Airie’s hand and jerked her along behind him as he ran from the temple to the sand swift, adrenaline lending him enough added strength to override her protests. He hoisted her into the saddle and scrambled up after her.

  The temple collapsed. A slide of boulders, dirt, and debris buried its entrance.

  “My mother!” she cried.

  Hunter did not waste time contemplating how they had been mere seconds from joining the dead priestess in her entombment, or the agony in Airie’s voice. That would come later. Instead, he gave the sand swift its head.

  The ground shook as they hurtled down the narrow path, packs bouncing and swaying.

  He intended for them to make it off the mountain before it fell beneath them.

  Chapter Five

  The Demon Lord found the desert to his liking for several reasons, not the least of which was that it served as a natural barrier against mortal men.

  Neither could demons bear the touch of rain, the gift from the goddesses to the mortal world. It burned like acid on demon flesh and bound them to the desert, where it rarely fell.

  Demons were also solitary, and enforced confinement in any great number created conflict among them. Only when necessary did the Demon Lord summon them together in the cavern he had carved into the red desert cliffs as protection from the searing light of day.

  He had summoned them now, and as he looked out on them, was reminded how pitiful their remaining numbers were. He had once drawn his strength from tens of thousands, enough to scorch this entire world with demon fire.

  The stone platform on which he sat placed him well above the restless crowd. He rolled his shoulders. Prolonged periods in mortal form created discomfort, but overall, it was one better suited to this world than any other.

  Mortality fascinated demon and goddess alike. Mortal existence was governed by the passage of time, and natural instinct encouraged the seeking of its fleeting physical pleasures. Assuming mortal forms provided access to pleasures demons had never before experienced.

  Time, however, had begun to affect demons in other, less pleasurable ways. The Demon Lord held up one hand and examined it by the light of the torches. The flesh over the knuckles had stretched and slightly puckered through time. His hair, once black as onyx, now bore a few threads of silver. Quite often, after prolonged periods of inactivity, his joints stiffened and even ached.

  Many, although not all, of those gathered around him were faring no better. The reality was, the Demon Lord found himself at the head of an aging army. Time had become the goddesses’ most effective weapon against them, and he had to find a way for them to escape before it was too late.

  If this spawn was the key to why they were trapped, as Mamna suggested, then there could be others like her too, and that was not to be tolerated. He wanted very much to know how a demon spawn could have survived all these years in the temple of the goddesses. And how a spawn came to be female.

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nbsp; He rose to his feet and stepped to the front of the platform. The horde below him gradually quieted. When they were silent and all he could hear was the sputtering flames of the torches, he spoke.

  “The mating with mortal women ends now.”

  An angry murmur began at the back of the room and quickly spread throughout. One of the demons who had chosen to keep his natural form for this gathering nudged his way forward through the crowd.

  Firelight glanced off bone-plated red skin as thick as a sand swift’s hide. Ridges lined a curved spine. Two short, sharp-pointed horns sprang from the sides of a broad forehead. His name was Be’el, and in his demon form even the bravest among them thought twice before accepting his challenge.

  Yet in his mortal form, women found him irresistible. Countless spawn had borne Be’el’s telltale markings.

  “We followed the goddesses to this world for the promise of its pleasures,” Be’el said. “We fought for them. Now you wish to deny them to us?”

  The Demon Lord had expected opposition, and from whom it would come, and he had prepared for it. He did not shift to his demon form, knowing it would insult and enrage Be’el that he did not. An added advantage was that in his mortal form he did not succumb easily to bloodlust, and he needed to keep a cool head.

  He rolled his head from side to side, lifting his shoulders and swinging his arms in anticipation. “We came here to bring the goddesses to their knees before us.”

  “And we did.”

  There was a rumble of agreement. The Demon Lord waited for it to die down. “No. They ran from us. And now they are free to roam the universe while we are stranded here, trapped in time.”

  “Time.” Be’el spat on the ground. “Time is nothing to us. If not for you we could rule this world, and all its pleasures would be ours for the taking.”

  “For how long?” the Demon Lord asked. “Until the last of us grows old and dies?”

  “We are immortals.”

  Death was not a concept easily understood by them. Neither was time. Demons did not fear either. Freedom, however, was something they valued. So was power. To claim one meant to risk losing the other, because when an immortal was killed by another immortal, the victor owned the death. The dead became slaves.

  Victory, however, came with its own heavy price. The dead did not give up freedom willingly. For Be’el to challenge him, he had to believe the Demon Lord weak enough to enslave. That belief could not be allowed to spread.

  “We are bound by the laws of the universe,” the Demon Lord said. “While we’re confined to this world, we are as subject to time as any mortal. Too many of us have been lost here already.”

  Be’el grinned. “Then until we die, we should be able to enjoy all time’s pleasures.”

  Again, there was a rumble of agreement. Louder, this time. Soon the crowd would grow completely out of control.

  “Clear the floor,” the Demon Lord commanded, and the rumble became a roar of eager excitement.

  Demons emptied the area in front of the platform, pushing back to the far walls of the cavern. The Demon Lord leaped to the smooth rock ground. Many of the spectators scrambled to the platform for a better view of the fight to come.

  The Demon Lord beckoned with cupped fingers for Be’el to approach him, and Be’el stepped into the clearing. He did not waste time, instead shooting out one massive, fisted hand in a roundhouse blow aimed at the Demon Lord’s temple.

  The Demon Lord’s mortal form was lighter and more agile, and used the thin desert air with greater efficiency. He easily dodged the first blow, and the next, dancing around the floor on the balls of his feet and making Be’el chase him. Be’el roared with rage and frustration.

  The onlookers, too, did not care for the Demon Lord’s tactics. Their discontent forced him to present one shoulder and absorb the next ham-fisted blow. He swallowed the pain, remaining upright with difficulty. A mortal form was not built for this type of abuse, but he needed to remind the others why he was Lord.

  He commanded demon fire, but he did not do so on his strength alone. When he’d burned the goddesses’ mountain, he had summoned it through the others.

  This time, he wanted only enough fire to remind the others of who he was, and why. So he drew it through Be’el, not the others, forming a ball of red flame between his fingers that licked up his arms and shot from his eyes. A spray of sparks danced from the ground to the cavern ceiling. He threw the ball of fire at Be’el. It caught him in the chest, ignited, and sent him staggering. Then, he aimed a kick at the demon’s knee.

  It was Be’el’s own bulk that toppled him. Once he was down, he rolled in an attempt to extinguish the flames, but the Demon Lord did not allow them to go out until the smell of roasting meat filled the cavern.

  The Demon Lord let the fire die away as he shifted into demon form. He planted a clawed foot on Be’el’s smoldering chest, and bending, slammed both fists into Be’el’s ears hard enough to draw blood.

  Blood was what the Demon Lord wanted, and now that he had drawn a little, he wanted more.

  Be’el, however, was far from defeated, and age had slowed the Demon Lord more than he wanted the others to see. Be’el’s feet caught him from below, lifting and tossing him to the side. The Demon Lord rolled as he landed, waited for Be’el to follow through with the attack, then grappled him into a headlock.

  One of Be’el’s claws scored a tear down his arm, and the combination of fiery pain and the smell of his own blood made the Demon Lord lose the last of his control. He bit into Be’el’s shoulder, cracking through protective plating and tearing the flesh from the bone.

  The other demon howled in pain and anger. Demons, however, did not show fear.

  Blood dripped from the Demon Lord’s chin as he swallowed the mouthful of hot flesh. He crammed the claws of one hand into the wound and wrenched until the exposed bone popped free from Be’el’s shoulder.

  Be’el panted, his agony evident, but he did not cede.

  The Demon Lord had to decide now if he would kill him, because this would be a fierce death for him to own. The more of them he possessed, the greater the risk they might someday manage to turn on him. Even in death they did not serve willingly. It was why demons did not fight demons.

  But it was what made him Lord. If he did not kill Be’el, the others would not learn the lesson he’d intended to impart.

  He had an arm wrapped around Be’el’s neck. With a jerk of his elbow, he snapped it.

  The cheers of the onlookers echoed throughout the cavern, bringing him back to the moment, and he tossed Be’el’s limp body aside for the others to finish.

  The blue-green haze of the dead demon’s soul settled over him, slowly seeping under his skin to join the others already in his possession.

  Breathing heavily, he shifted back to mortal form.

  Two of his supporters had moved in to stand between him and the masses now that the fight was over. He had them kneel so he could stand on their shoulders, and they raised him tall above the rioting crowd. The slight amount of his own drawn blood paled to insignificance when compared to the spreading pool of Be’el’s and the stench of cooked meat, but drawn blood meant there would be no holding the demons back this night.

  He did not want them turning on one another. Their numbers were few enough. Let them turn on those the goddesses had favored instead. Let the demons destroy everything the goddesses had loved, and leave nothing for them to return to once the demons were gone.

  “There will be no more mating with mortal women,” the Demon Lord repeated, shouting over the crazed cacophony. He lifted a fist against their displeasure. “But do what you will with the men.”

  With that, he released them into the night to prey on those mortals who had not heeded the warning of the rising west wind.

  The Demon Lord, however, did not follow them.

  He abandoned the now-empty cavern to wander the cooling sands of the desert, and to allow the cut on his arm to heal. The winds cleared his head
.

  When he’d first come to this world, he had found the west wind as irresistible as the others did. He too had thought mortal women the most beautiful creatures in the universe.

  Then he had seen a goddess in her mortal form for the first time.

  The pull of the wind had been strong that night, he recalled. He had let it fill his wings and carry him far out into the night, closer than he’d ever before dared to go toward the mountain that was protected against him and his kind.

  The desert and the world had still been new to him. He had reveled in the countless sensations—the sounds, the tastes, the touch—of everything around him. The universe was a complex place, and he had traveled it from beginning to end, but here, where time ruled, the senses overwhelmed him. To live was to know unimaginable joy and unutterable sorrow. The universe might be complex, but the world of time was full of extremes.

  Something below him had caught his attention that night. A sparkle of starlight on water, perhaps. Or on wet, golden skin. A faint hint of her perfume. He had let the wind drop him to the sand, where he’d used his mortal form to carry him to the edge of a small oasis.

  She had discarded her robe. Clad only in the moonlight and her long, fair hair, her skin shone gold against the pool’s glassy black surface.

  He had known her for a goddess the instant he set eyes on her. No mere mortal could be so perfect, or capture a demon’s attention so completely. He had heard stories that a goddess was as irresistible to mortal men as demons were to mortal women, and had felt nothing but contempt for such human weakness.

  Seeing her, however, made him understand. She was alone, she was vulnerable…and he should take from her what was his by right. A goddess was meant to be the other half of a demon’s self, promised to him at the dawn of the universe.

  The goddesses, however, had refused to be claimed.